Frontseat, Backseat
by Greenholly
Summary: A closer look at Branson and Sybil throughout the series, starting a week or so after the incident at Ripon.
1. Chapter 1

I own nothing.

Reviews welcome.

* * *

Lady Sybil was sneaking. It was growing into rather a bad habit lately, first with that wonderful, new frock, then with that horrible incident at the rally only a week ago, and now, sneaking into her father's library. If she had thought very hard about it, she might have traced a catalyst that had set off her need for secrecy. As it was, she was content to tell herself that she was simply maturing, developing, evolving into her own woman.

She casually glanced around the library, with an air of someone who has nothing better to do, as if she could be in any room of the house and it would grant her the same amount of fascination. She meandered over to a shelf and picked a book at random to leaf through and glanced at the passage before her.

_While down the streams that float us each and all__  
__To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice,__  
__Throne after throne, and molten on the waste__  
__Becomes a cloud: for all things serve their time_

_Toward that great year of equal mights and rights,_

Sybil smiled. Wasn't it like her to find something political at a moment like this? She placed the faithful little book back on its rightful shelf. Suddenly she felt a kind of excitement fluttering in her chest and now sure that the coast was entirely clear, she was resolved to give into her temptation. Forcing herself to walk slowly, to breathe normally, she made her way over to where her father kept the ledger for people who borrowed books. Her hands felt lighter than air as they turned the pages and her eyes skimmed for what she had long wanted to know. There! scrawled neatly under Cousin Matthew's own rather flourished signature, was that of Tom Branson.

Sybil let her fingers trail across the page, admiring the straight, orderly lines.

"Lady Sybil?"

Sybil nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around and felt heat flooding her cheeks. Carson was standing in the entryway, one eyebrow raised, and looking as intimidating as ever.

"Carson," she said breathlessly, bringing her hand to her chest, "You frightened me."

"Sorry, milady," he said graciously, he half turned to leave, but Sybil couldn't stop herself from speaking.

"I was looking for a book," she said quickly, "When I couldn't find it where it normally is, I thought someone might have borrowed it and I see," she glanced at the page of the ledger and pointed "That Cousin Matthew has it." An idea popped into her head. "Perhaps I'll go into town tomorrow and fetch it from him, I have a few errands that have been stacking up ever since I've been… indisposed," self-consciously her hand raised to touch where she had been wounded in the rally, "Would Branson be able to take me?"

"I'll see that it's all arranged, Lady Sybil," said Carson, his eyebrows now level with each other, he gave a slight bow.

"Thank you," she said graciously. Then, hurriedly grabbed another book at random from the shelf and walked happily out of the room, not able to keep the pride out of her voice as she waved the book in her hand."This will tide me over until then."

* * *

Sybil studied her reflection in the mirror with disappointment as Anna was busy letting down her elaborate hair style. Dinner that night had not gone very well at all.

"You're not going out alone," her father said, in-between bites of roast duck.

"I'm only going to town," Sybil protested, "I'll be visiting Isobel and Matthew! I can hardly get into any trouble."

"Yes well, forgive me, my dear, but it will take me a while before I can take you at your word again. Or let Branson drive you alone, for that matter."

At this her anger flared, "How many times have I told you that it wasn't his fault! I lied to him as well as you! As a matter of fact he has every right to be just as mad at me as you are!" She realized the truth of the words as she spat them out. Her anger ebbed slightly and there was an unpleasant twisting in her stomach that had nothing to do with Mrs. Patmore's cooking. She thought Mary might have darted a look at her, but quickly dismissed the idea.

"Edith will go with you," her father said in a voice that made it clear to all that the argument was over.

"Is everything alright milady?" Anna asked, placing discarded hairpins on the vanity and peering into her face through the mirror.

"Yes," Sybil said arranging her features in a smile, "Except I have to spend nearly all of tomorrow with Edith."

Anna smiled. "Lady Edith is not so bad," she said.

"No, I don't think she used to be, but," she thought about her sister's tight, hard smile, "but lately she's changed. She's so bitter. I'm not sure her and Mary will ever be friendly again."

"That's the way sibling's go sometimes. My father used to be with his brother all the time, growin' up. Now they hardly speak to each other."

Anna had pulled the last hairpin out of place and started to brush through Sybil's long, thick hair.

"Gwen told me that you and she were quite like sisters," Sybil said softly.

Anna looked surprised for a moment before reverting back to her usual, sweet smile.

"I suppose we are."

"I wish I had someone as you and she have," Sybil said impulsively, "Mary and Edith seem too concerned with themselves to notice anyone else."

"Lady Mary was very concerned when you were hurt, milady."

Sybil winced, she did not want to think about the rally, all of the people she had given cause to worry. She reached up and touched the area near her temple again, then looked at the woman dutifully brushing her hair in the mirror. Had Anna been worried? Had all of the staff? She was foolish, utterly, utterly foolish.

"You can go Anna," she said "I'll finish the rest myself."

"Are you sure milady?"

"Yes, thank you."

Anna set down the brush, curtseyed and was gone.

Sybil let out a long sigh and paced around the room for a minute or so before flopping, ungracefully, onto her bed. She stared up at the ceiling, thoughts dimly swirling around in her head, before one, clear and bright outshone them all.

_Tom._

_Tom Branson._

She had wanted to know his first name for some time now, though she wasn't sure why. She had never given a second thought to Carson's first name, or O'Brien's. Perhaps it was because – she didn't think of him as a servant, more like - a friend. But it had hardly seemed appropriate to ask him, though it would have been the simplest way, asking her father or Carson would have been far worse. Eventually she had remembered her father's ledger.

"Tom," she said aloud, as if she were practicing a foreign language.

She hadn't spoken to him since the rally, though she desperately longed to. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was, for lying to him, for making him take her to that awful place, for not listening to him when he had tried to usher her back to the car, for almost getting him fired, oh! for a million things she wished that she could now erase. And now that Edith was accompanying her to town tomorrow, it didn't seem likely that she would get any chance at all.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning sun shone through the windows of Branson's small cottage, waking him before Mr. Carson sent William out to knock on his door. He lay in bed and watched the light as it streamed onto the piles of books on the desk, the green and gold uniform hung crisply in the wardrobe and the scattered pamphlets on the floor. In his dream last night, there had been a vase with bright blue flowers on his desk, which at the time had seemed perfectly normal, but rather odd now that he thought about it. A rapping noise at the door startled him.

"Time to rise, Mr. Branson. Mrs. Hughes has breakfast waiting for you in the house. She says mind you hurry up."

"Thank you, William," Branson said, through the door before he heard the retreating footsteps. He stretched and sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, his head in his hands before walking briskly over to the wash basin.

Today he was bringing Sybil and Lady Edith into town. Mr. Carson had informed him of the fact yesterday after dinner, and still Branson had no idea how he was going to manage. For a week now he had been in torment over taking Sybil to Ripon. He should have known what was in her mind, should have seen the determination, the fire, the spark in her eyes the first day he had driven her back from Ripon. Surely, he should have anticipated what she was going to do. He had never felt so helpless, so lost, so miserable in all his life as he first stared down at her where she lay, so white and still. It had given him nightmares since.

He splashed water on his face and dressed quickly before walking down to the house, which was calm now that the family was awake, dressed and at breakfast. He took a seat across from Bates who was chatting amicably with Anna. He ate his breakfast in silence, ignoring Mrs. Patmore's frequent scolding, most of which was directed at Daisy.

_Meek and mild as a mouse, that one is. _He thought, not for the first time.

In-between bites of toast he looked around. Bates, Anna, Daisy, Gwen, William, Mrs. Hughes each working hard so that others, upstairs, didn't have to. He thought about the unfairness of it all and he wondered how soon it would all change. Change was inevitable and more than that, it was coming fast.

"And what are you thinking about Mr. Branson that you crunch so loudly on your toast?"

He looked up from his toast ready to apologize when he saw Gwen smiling at him. Realizing she had meant nothing by it, he smiled back.

"Change," he said congenially "Everything in the world is pointing toward it, struggling for it, and all it needs is a small push to get it in motion."

Gwen smiled and seemed about to say something else when Thomas, who was having a fag at the end of table, broke in.

"Could we give politics a rest now that you've nearly gotten Lady Sybil killed?" Every word was articulated perfectly and dripping with cold disdain.

Branson's easy smile fell and his eyes dropped back to his plate. He had never liked Thomas, in fact, he thought he was a rather smarmy, insufferable bloke, but it didn't make what he said any less true. If he hadn't encouraged Sybil, would she have gone to Ripon? He thought he was helping her, letting her reach her potential as a free woman and instead she had gotten hurt.

"That's enough," he heard Bates say, softly.

"Why? I can't fathom why he's still here. Should have been sacked on the spot."

"And are you applying to be a chauffeur as well Thomas?" asked Gwen, angry.

Thomas sneered, "Don't be ridiculous, all they do is sit on their arse all day and steer."

"Aye, when now you only have to do half that," said Branson, surprising everyone.

Thomas' cool sneer never wavered, but Branson could see a flash of rage in his eyes. Gwen was suppressing giggles, William, it almost seemed, looked ready to hug him and Anna and Bates were smiling slightly. Only Daisy looked shocked.

"Mr. Branson," Carson said, appearing out of thin air, "Lady Edith and Lady Sybil will be ready to leave soon. I suggest you pull the car around."

"Yes, sir," said Branson, getting up and walking out of the room quickly, thrilled to have a reason to leave. Despite being what many in the house deemed a "radical" he was not naturally inclined to violence.

Stepping out of the house and into the crisp morning air, Branson realized he had to have some sort of plan of action where Sybil – Lady Sybil, was concerned. It was his overwhelming need to talk to her, to connect with her that had started the trouble in the first place. If only she hadn't been so interesting…and beautiful… and kind…

He stopped that particular train of thought before it got any further. This was just the sort of thing that he needed to stop. He needed to stop inadvertently thinking of her eyes and how they shone with passion and intelligence. He needed to stop his heart from beating like drum whenever he was near her. He needed to stop holding her hand for a split second longer than he held anyone else's when he lifted her in and out of the car. He needed to stop thinking about her without her title. He needed to stop hearing her voice when he was alone at night. And most importantly he needed to stop deluding himself into thinking, even for a portion of a second that she felt the same way about him.

Because she didn't.

She couldn't.

As he entered the garage and knelt to crank the car, waiting for it to sputter into life, he made a resolution. He was her chauffeur. He would be her chauffeur. Nothing more, nothing less. He would speak when spoken to, he would not speak otherwise. He would treat her like he didn't find her wonderful, incredible, intoxicating.

If it would keep her safe, if it would keep her happy, he would be the perfect servant.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you to everyone for the kind reviews. I could always use more...

I own nothing.

* * *

"And then of course there's that cream dress which she adores, but I've never seen why. It makes her eyes look so small and puffy…"

Sybil groaned inwardly. For the past ten minutes, her watch assured her that it was not an eternity like she imagined, she had been listening to Edith's criticizing of every single article of Mary's clothing. Her eyes flickered momentarily to the mirror where she could see nearly half of Branson's face in the reflection. The cold sense of dread that had lay, curled and waiting in her stomach worsened. She had not seen him smile once today.

It had been a cold greeting this morning, not at all like she was used to. Granted Edith was there, but still, it didn't explain how his hand didn't give hers a friendly squeeze when he helped her into the carriage, it didn't explain how his eyes never met with hers for more than an instant, even though she kept trying to search them out, it didn't explain why he didn't occasionally glance in the mirror to wink at her or flash her a smile.

_Why! _ Sybil thought despairingly, _It's as if there's nothing between us at all! _

She was struck by her own thought. She immediately chided herself for it. There wasn't anything improper, they were simply- friends. The connection between them had been so natural and easy that Sybil had never really stopped to think about it before. Branson was easy to talk to, easy to be around, fun to be around. He listened to her, never chided her for her ideas, never scoffed at her for being young and foolish, as Mary and Edith were apt to do. It was as if he saw her for the woman that she truly was, instead of seeing her as _the youngest, _or _the Earl's daughter. _He was fond of her and she was – rather fond of him.

Now she had ruined it all! She had lied to him, taken advantage of him, almost gotten him fired! She was certain he was angry with her, why else would he be so stiff and formal?

She stared at the back of his head and had the sudden, overwhelming urge to kiss the sliver of skin that showed right above the collar of his uniform. To press her lips against his warm skin…

"Sybil!"

Sybil snapped her attention back to her sister, who was glaring daggers at her.

"You're not even listening to me."

"I'm sorry Edith, but you have to remember that Mary is my sister as well. I can't bear to hear you speak of her as if- as if you hated her."

"I see," said Edith, bristling, "You're on her side."

"I'm not on her side!" Sybil said, offended "If Mary were to speak of you so acidly, I wouldn't allow it either!" She took Edith's hands in her own and at that her sister seemed to soften. "I would like it very much if we could all simply get along."

Edith looked into her eyes and Sybil thought she saw a flash of remorse before the famous Crawly stubbornness returned and Edith pulled her hands out of her younger sister's grasp, looking out the window in silence. Sybil sighed, Edith was becoming evermore of a stranger to her. Her eyes darted to the mirror again, hoping against hope that Branson would grin at her, let her know it was all alright, but he was focused on the road.

They rode in silence until they reached the Crawley's and again, when Branson helped them out of the car, he did not pay Sybil any special attention and for some reason, she didn't know why, it felt as though he let go of her hand earlier than he usually did.

"Thank you, Branson," she said, trying to elicit a response.

He met her eyes briefly and nodded, but that was all and Sybil walked into Crawley House feeling much less chipper than usual.

Mrs. Crawley was happy to see them. She remarked on how well Sybil looked and insisted on looking at the wound and applying a salve. All in all, the visit was pleasant; Matthew was at work, which meant that Sybil couldn't fetch the book she wanted. It was a private relief to Sybil who wanted nothing to do with the book Matthew had borrowed, _Popular Tales from Greek Mythology._ Over tea Edith and Mrs. Crawley were speaking about another tour of the churches in the county and Sybil's mind wandered once more to Branson, and how she was going to make things right.

"_How is it that you came to be a chauffeur?" she asked, as she watched him fix a flat tyre, sitting against a tree only a couple of paces away. _

"_Got a mechanical mind," Branson answered, looking back at her and grinning, "And my Ma wanted me out of the house."_

"_But why not just go straight into politics?" _

"_Well," he said congenially, "All of our fathers can't be Earls now can they?" _

_How was it, Sybil wondered, that anyone else saying that would have made her absolutely furious? But she knew that Branson didn't resent her for her position in life. She looked at him admiringly. He had given her his jacket to sit on, so as not to get her dress dirty. And now that he had rolled up his sleeves, she watched his forearms in fascination, the muscles flexing and relaxing and straining under his skin. She wondered briefly what it would be like to be held in arms not unlike the ones in front of her, before quickly dismissing the thought. _

"_A career in politics takes money," Branson continued, "and while chauffeuring isn't exactly a well paying job, its good, decent work. Besides that I have a lot of free time to read, I can't say I mind the company," he gave her half a glance before returning to his work, Sybil felt her heart rate increase slightly " and you hear the most interesting conversations." _

_Sybil played absentmindedly with one of the brass buttons on his jacket sleeve. _

"_And have you turned all of your employer's daughters into stark-raving radicals?" She tried to make her voice sound as if she had meant it as a joke, but deep down she was yearning to know the answer. _

_She could not look at him, even though she knew that he had turned around fully this time to look at her, after what seemed like a year she finally lifted her eyes to find him staring at her with an expression that left her breathless . _

"_No, milady," he said, "you'd be the first." _

Sybil sighed, remembering the conversation that had taken place almost a year ago. There had been many conversations since then, but that one always stuck out in her mind as important.

"Are you alright, dear?"

It took Sybil a moment to realize that Mrs. Crawley was speaking to her. Her eyes focused on the concerned face staring at her above a cup of tea.

"Yes, perfectly fine."

"It was just that you seemed a little… lost."

Sybil smiled and sipped her tea, which had been clutched in her hand, quite forgotten, for some time. Edith chimed in before Sybil could compose an answer.

"Probably thinking about women's rights."


	4. Chapter 4

At least one more chapter to go, possibly more about later in the series, I would like to keep this going. (Maybe a couple of reviews could make me write quicker... hint hint, wink wink, nudge nudge)

I own nothing.

* * *

Sybil fiddled with some samples of ribbon, watching out of the corner of her eye as Edith tried on a particularly smart hat. This was the last stop of a very long, very productive day. Sybil and her sister had been up, down and around the village for hours now, visiting shops, bringing old clothing to the church, attending a dreadfully boring luncheon with their Grandmother who was trying to instruct Sybil how to behave on her first season out in society.

And Branson had still not spared Sybil one solitary glance. She was positively depressed by now, and if anyone besides Edith were there with her, they would have thought something catastrophic had occurred to create such a cloud over the normally effervescent girl.

"What do you think Sybil?" Edith asked, surveying herself in the mirror.

"It's very nice," her sister said half-heartedly.

"Very well, I'll take it," Edith said handing the hat to the assistant waiting on her and then fixing her hair where it was mussed.

While Edith was having her hat wrapped and boxed, Sybil looked out the window at the car waiting patiently for them. She could see Branson's profile, head bent, reading a book, every so often looking toward the entrance to make sure he wasn't needed. A car pulling over on the other side of the street attracted her attention. A tall, fairly good-looking, middle-aged man stepped out. Sybil smiled as he noticed the car parked in front of the milliners and walked over toward it.

Edith had just finished paying for the hat and turned to look at her sister.

"What are you grinning about?" she asked irritably, then she saw the man apparently questioning Branson and her expression softened. She walked out of the shop, a spring in her step, while Sybil followed, grinning.

"Sir Anthony! What brings you down here?" She was smiling cheerfully now, hardly noticing when Branson took the hatbox from her.

"I was on my way to Downton," he said, smiling bewilderingly and fidgeting with the hat in his hands, "Your mother invited me for dinner. I – I saw your car parked and I thought I might stop and see who was about." There was a small awkward silence in which Sir Anthony's eyes darted from the ground to Edith's face. "This is rather fortuitous; I was hoping to ask you out for a drive before dinner. We could start out now, that is, if you're not too tired…"

"I would love to," she said happily, making Sir Anthony's smile widen temporarily before he frowned suddenly and his brow furrowed.

"Oh, but wont your parents be worried, you disappearing suddenly?"

"Nonsense, Sybil can explain everything to them, she's just going home now."

Sir Anthony started; he seemed to notice Sybil for the first time, standing behind her sister quietly. "Lady Sybil," he said bowing slightly, she smiled and curtseyed in response. He turned his attention to Edith once more.

"Well that's splendid," he said enthusiastically, holding out his arm for Edith to take which she did promptly. They started to walk toward Sir Anthony's car when he looked back at Sybil abruptly,

"You don't mind do you?"

Mind? Sybil could have kissed him if it wouldn't have made Edith's head explode.

"No, I'll let Mama know everything," she yelled, for they were practically across the street already.

"Much obliged," Sir Anthony said, before opening the car of his door for Edith.

Sybil watched with amusement as Sir Anthony cranked his car into life and then proceeded to jump in next to Edith. Sybil waved from the sidewalk, but the passengers neither noticed nor waved back as they sped down the lane.

It was a couple of moments before she heard Branson give a slight cough. She turned to look at him, and her smile faltered slightly. He held out a hand to help her into the car and she took it gratefully.

"Back to the house, milady?" he asked, closing the door.

"Yes please, Branson," he started to walk around to the front when she had a sudden idea. "Could we take the road that crosses over Helston brook?"

"Very good, milady."

They rode in silence, but it seemed to Sybil that it was an enforced silence. She felt rather like a child waiting to receive a scolding. For the first time she caught Branson looking at her through his mirror. His clear blue eyes studying her, he looked away as soon as their eyes met.

"It seems my sister will soon be the next Lady Strallen," she said tentatively, testing the waters.

"And will you be happy for it, milady?" he asked, his voice lacked all of its usual warmth.

"Edith will be happy, and there's nothing I can say against that," she said.

Branson nodded but said nothing. They rode in silence once more.

"Branson could you stop up here please?" Sybil asked a while later, as they were about to come to a small bridge. "I'd like to walk a little."

"Yes, milady," he said and through the mirror, Sybil saw his brow furrow in confusion. Faithfully he pulled the car over to the side of the road and got out to help her from her seat, only now, Sybil did not let go of his hand right away, but held it gently in her own.

"Won't you walk with me, Branson?" she asked. She had walked with him once before on the grounds at Downton, and she remembered how enjoyable it had been. He was looking down at the ground so she couldn't read his expression.

"I don't think that would be proper, milady," he said, his voice strained.

She sighed and leaned her back against the car, she let go of his hand, however reluctantly.

"Are you very angry with me Branson?" she asked, feeling more dispirited than ever.

To her amazement that did elicit an emotion from the chauffeur. His head jerked up to look at her now and his face showed nothing but surprise.

"Why should I be angry with you?" he asked.

Sybil stared at him, her speech faltering "You – I – I lied to you!" she said incredulously "When we went to Ripon, I – I said I had a meeting. I never listened to you when you told me to stay put and – and –" she felt her eyes beginning to sting from unshed tears, "I nearly got you fired! And all because I wanted to go to some stupid election! I didn't even think of the danger I was putting you in, you could have lost your job and then –" _Then I would have never seen you again, _she thought, for the first time. A sob forced itself out of her, thinking of what might have been. "And just now and all day you've been so cold and distant and I've no idea how to make it right!" She was sobbing in earnest now and she turned away wiping angrily at her cheek.

She felt a warm, gentle hand placed tentatively on her shoulder.

"It's alright, lass."

Maybe it was the lack of formality as he spoke or the warmth of his hand that shattered her reserve. She turned and hugged him, her arms wrapping themselves around his neck, her face pressed against the soft fabric of his jacket.

"I'm sorry," she said earnestly "I'm so sorry."

Slowly, very slowly, she felt his arms wrap around her waist and she felt his shoulders relax.

"It's alright," he said, soothingly "I haven't been angry with you. I've just been – trying to keep away because I thought you might want it. I see now that I was wrong. I'm sorry milady."

"Sybil," she corrected. He didn't reply.

"Did my father yell at you very much?"

"Well, yes," he said truthfully, "But, you see, I wasn't worried about my job, I was worried about you."

Sybil was glad that her face was pressed against his chest, for she was sure she was blushing.

"I told him it wasn't your fault. I told him I would runaway if he fired you."

She felt Branson pull back slightly, in order to better look at her, she let her hands untangle themselves from around his neck and fall so that they rested flat against his chest. She looked up at him and was surprised to see that his face was stern.

"Don't even think such a thing on account of me," he said, looking straight into her eyes, "I'm not worth it. Your father is a good man, despite being old fashioned. He was nearly scared to death over you."

"You are worth it," she said, her sense of injustice kindling, "I wasn't going to let him punish you for something I did. Would you have preferred that I didn't fight and he had fired you on the spot?"

"I didn't say that," he said softly, and he smiled at her. How she had missed that smile! She felt herself smiling in return. He let go of her waist and took a step back. Sybil immediately felt colder, despite the summer heat. The moment was over, and Sybil knew that she would not feel his arms around her again for a long while, if ever.

And yet, despite this, looking into Branson's clear, blue eyes, his beautiful smile, she felt the burden which had been weighing on her all week float away, lighter than air.

"Now," he said, offering her his arm, "I believe you mentioned something about a walk?"


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you so much for all of the kind reviews.

This is as far as I anticipated going when I started to write this, but now I'm thinking of extending it. I don't think that Thomas is going to let that comment in Chapter Two go quietly. I'd also like to throw a little William/Daisy into the mix because as far as I know there's only one fanfic about them on this site and it's in Spanish.

Let me know what you think.

As always, I own nothing.

* * *

Being the perfect servant had not worked after all. Branson threw a sideways glance at his companion, walking steadily beside him. The afternoon sun cast a haze over the clearing where they had stopped. The flowers, the grass, even the rocks glistening on the bottom of the brook, were all brighter, more vibrant versions of themselves. It was a relief to Branson who, after all of the forced formality and the cold knowledge of separation between Sybil and himself, had developed an uncharacteristic headache.

It was quite forgotten now that he was walking arm in arm with Sybil, who also looked more vibrant than ever. Branson marveled at her beauty. She was, at least in his opinion, the prettiest of Sir Crawley's daughters. Mary was striking, he admitted, but rather proud. Always, she wore a mask of icy indifference; he had only seen it falter once, when she was concerned for her sister's injury. Edith was pretty, but there were definitely qualities about her which seemed lacking.

Sybil – Sybil was something else entirely. There was a warmth about her, as if she had a hearth at the very core of her which burned constantly, and, Branson knew, could roar into a mighty fire when roused. And yet, she was so soft, so pleasant, so yielding when he held her in his arms moments before. She must have heard how loud his heart was beating or at least felt it through his uniform, the way her cheek was pressed against it. If she did, she gave no indication of it. She was smiling, speaking in her sweet, low voice about Gwen and her hopes for the future.

"It's just so frustrating! All of the advertisements ask for experience, but of course Gwen doesn't have any experience when it comes to being a secretary, but she's worked so hard for it, and she wants it more than anyone else could."

Branson nodded "If employers based their decisions on a person's character, the world would be a very different place." _Thomas certainly wouldn't be employed, _he thought to himself.

"All she needs is a chance, I'm sure she'd prove to be an excellent secretary. She just needs someone who's willing to take her on."

"She's lucky to have you. Some families might scold her, for thinking above her station."

"I don't believe in stations. We're not all born to be stuck or – or immovable for our entire lives."

"Too many people have grown accustomed to the way things are done. They look around them and see the world the way it is and think 'This is the way it _must _be.' They're afraid of breaking away from convention because they've become too comfortable with society. Take Mr. Carson, for instance, I respect him a great deal, but I'll bet my hat that his parents were in service and their parents before them. The man probably had no thought of being anything other than a butler."

Sybil stopped abruptly beside him and when he looked at her he was surprised to her smiling, her eyes shining with mischief.

"You would bet your hat on it?"

She looked so beguiling, so impish and intriguing that he knew he should be wary, but found it was much more fun to be reckless.

"Yes, I would," he said and watched her smile grow wider. He would bet every stitch of clothing on his body if she would smile like that.

"Place your hand over your heart."

"What?" he asked, completely taken aback.

"Place your hand over your heart," she said, slower this time, taking care to enunciate each word.

Branson complied, though he was still confused.

"Now repeat after me;" she said, "I, Tom Branson,"

A thrill went through him as she said his name; he had to clear his throat before speaking.

"I, Tom Branson,"

"Do solemnly swear,"

"Do solemnly swear,"

"Never to reveal what Sybil Crawley has told me today to another living soul."

"Never to reveal what…Sybil Crawley had told me today to another living soul." He debated adding her title to the oath, but her eyes warned against it. She had chosen to accept him as an equal, even if he was still too terrified to do so.

"Alright then," she said, watching his face expectantly, "What if I told you that the venerable Mr. Carson used to be," she paused for dramatic effect "on the stage?"

Branson was flabbergasted. His mouth hung open for a moment before he sputtered out, "As- As a piece of scenery?"

"No," said Sybil, laughing "Singing and dancing! He had a whole act, with a partner and everything."

"No."

"Yes!"

Branson tried to picture Carson as a younger man, singing in front of a crowd, it didn't work, but found that he had a greater deal of respect for the stern old man. He shook his head in disbelief.

"So about that hat…" Sybil said smiling playfully.

Branson's attention turned back to Sybil and he was about to speak when she continued.

"Since it is a part of your uniform, I could hardly take it from you. But I might be inclined to accept something else as the spoils of my victory."

"What would you like instead?" he asked smiling, although, truth be told, he couldn't think of anything of his that she could possibly want.

Sybil thought for a moment. Branson could see her eyes suddenly light up and she nodded.

"A handkerchief! That seems fair doesn't it? Rather like something out of Camelot."

"Or Shakespeare," said Branson, smiling wider, pleased that he could so readily comply. He undid the top buttons of his jacket and reached into the pocket near his heart. His mother had given him a set of five handkerchiefs before he left for his first job as a chauffeur. At the time she had not understood that it was the custom to embroider only the initials, so tucked away in the corner of the cloth, spelled out in blue thread was the name _Tom_. He looked at it fondly before handing it to Sybil.

She held it gently, as if it were something precious, before looking up at him with eyes that shone with more than gratitude.

"Thank you," She suddenly looked very shy "Is your full name Thomas?"

Branson shook his head "My parents were never ones for complication. That's my full name right there," he pointed at the handkerchief.

"Tom," she said, running her fingers over the embroidery.

Again a thrill went through him as she said his name. Did she not realize that it made him want more than he could have? Did she not realize how much he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her? He wanted to believe she would welcome it. He wanted to believe that she wanted the handkerchief simply because it was his. He wanted to hear her whisper his name into his ear deep in the middle of the night. He glanced at the car, waiting for them by the bridge.

"We'd better be getting back to Downton or your sister will beat us there."

Sybil stared at him, a curious expression on her face, then sighed. "I suppose we must."

They walked back to the car, but Branson watched as Sybil stopped by the bank of the brook and bent to pick a bright, white flower. He helped her into the carriage and cranked the car until it sputtered into life, and just like that, their moment of refuge was gone and they were on their way back to Downton.

From his mirror Branson could see Sybil slip the handkerchief into her purse. The ride was short and Branson cast about for something to say but could come up with nothing, so he stayed silent. When they pulled up at Downton William and Thomas were waiting for them. Branson handed Sybil down from her seat and was surprised when she gave his hand a squeeze. He coughed and saw her grin. He flitted his eyes toward Thomas to make sure he hadn't noticed anything, but the footman's eyes were straight ahead. Sybil walked into the house and Thomas and William gathered the parcels from the car. As they were taking them inside, William being the far more burdened of the two, Sybil came rushing out again.

"Sorry, I dropped my glove in the car," and before Branson could help her, she popped into the carriage and a second later, leapt triumphantly onto the gravel, brandishing the offending glove.

"Thank you Branson," she said, giving him a small nod, her eyes shining again.

Later, when Branson had pulled the car into the garage, he glanced in the mirror and caught a flash of something white in the backseat. He turned around to get a full view and saw a bright white flower sitting just where Sybil had been. And still later that night, sitting at the edge of his bed, he held the flower to his nose and inhaled the sweet scent before pressing it between the pages of one of his books and setting it among the many tomes stacked on his desk. Then, with visions of a dancing Carson and handkerchief he blew out his candle, settled into his bed and drifted off to sleep with a smile still hovering on his lips.


End file.
